No language is, or ever has been, in the strict sense of the word, pure. All languages are continually borrowing and lending—adopting words from foreign sources, and contributing from their own store to that of others. It is now well known that the ancient Greeks borrowed largely from the Oriental tongues, and lent words and forms to Latin. Latin, again, borrowed from Greek, and contributed to form the modern Italian, Spanish, and French. The modern German language is just now strongly affected by a French influence; and French itself, though for the most part Latin, contains many Celtic and not a few Germanic words. Spanish, which is in the main Latin, has a very considerable admixture of Arabic, brought in by the Moors in the eighth century; and English is well known to be made up of Anglo-Saxon, Norman, French, and Latin.

But languages are not only subject to these attacks from without, a process of internal corruption is also set up, and appears in various forms. One of these may be recognised in the principle of contraction. It may be laid down as a rule that words, as they grow older, degenerate in meaning and contract in form. This contraction probably originated in a loose, careless way of speaking, which afterwards affected the written language. Sometimes a letter or syllable is cut off from the beginning of a word; sometimes one is taken from the middle, or from the end. ‘Bus’ is now all we have left (at any rate, in ordinary conversation) of ‘omnibus.’ ‘Fantasy’ has lost its middle syllable, and appears as ‘fancy’ and ‘cab’ does duty for ‘cabriolet.’ One conclusion this result enables us to draw is that the contracted forms are always the more modern. The form ‘courtesy’ existed before ‘curtsy;’ ‘procurator’ preceded ‘proctor;’ and ‘minute’ was known before ‘mite.’ Whether these contractions are to be regarded favourably or otherwise may be a question, but there is no doubt that they are all produced by the operation of a natural law of language which no human power will ever be able to prevent.

When a word is warped or distorted from its original form, either by a vicious or slovenly pronunciation, or from a mistaken notion of its derivation, it is said to be a corruption. One of these corruptions appears in our word ‘surgeon.’ The French ‘chirurgien,’ from which it immediately comes, shows more clearly its Greek origin—?e?? (cheir), a hand; and ???? (ergo), I work—i.e. a hand-worker, or manual operator. But a careless pronunciation, probably aided by a natural tendency to contraction, has caused the word with us to dwindle down to ‘surgeon.’

As an illustration of corruption arising from a false notion of its derivation, we may take the word ‘island.’ How did the s get into it? This s is not sounded, and yet it must be written. In the one word ‘island,’ there is a mixture of Latin and German. The first syllable is of Romance, and the second of Teutonic origin. The Latin for ‘island’ is ‘insula,’ from ‘in’ and ‘salo,’ the ‘salt,’ i.e. in the salt (sea, understood). The Anglo-Saxon word for the same idea was ‘ea-land.’ Here ‘ea’ means ‘water.’ This ‘ea,’ or ‘ey,’ is found in many names of islands, as ‘Anglesea,’ ‘Jersey,’ ‘Guernsey,’ &c. ‘Ea-land,’ then meant ‘water-land,’ or ‘land surrounded by water.’ In the earlier editions of ‘Paradise Lost,’ the word always appears written ‘iland’ (without the s), which points more clearly to its Saxon derivation, and is nearer in spelling to the modern German—‘Eiland.’ The ‘s’ was afterwards inserted, from a mistaken notion that the word was of Latin, and not German, origin.

A false analogy will sometimes give rise to a corrupted form of spelling. The past tense of ‘can’ was originally ‘coude,’ not ‘could;’ and the l was afterwards introduced, from the apparent analogy of the word to ‘would,’ from ‘will,’ and ‘should,’ from ‘shall.’ This, then, is a corruption. But, though at first incorrect, the l must, of course, be now retained.

Proper names, both of places and persons, have suffered a good deal from this influence. Words of this class are most likely to be corrupted, because they are most frequently in the mouths of the common people. That ‘Birmingham’ should be called ‘Brummagem,’ ‘Cirencester,’ ‘Siseter,’ and ‘Wavertree,’ ‘Wartree,’ is not surprising when we remember that these corruptions originated with those who had often to pronounce, but seldom, if ever, to write these names. But what is, perhaps, more strange, many of these corruptions are now adopted by the upper classes. Thus, in all ranks of society, the proper name ‘Beauchamp’ is now pronounced ‘Beecham;’ ‘St. John’ is called ‘Sinjon;’ ‘Cholmondeley’ is pronounced ‘Chumley,’ and ‘Marjoribanks’ ‘Marchbanks.’

Slang Words.

Among the many signs of the corruption of the English language, one, which is not the least remarkable, is the prevalent use of slang words and phrases. That certain terms should be peculiar to certain callings, trades, or professions, may be naturally expected, but that these should be extended into general conversation, is a corroborative proof of the strong liking people now have for any thing unusual or out-of-the-way. One very curious fact may be here observed. While the style of most of our periodical writers soars upwards, and affects the lofty and sublime, that of general conversation is the very reverse, and sinks to the low and vulgar.

A difference must be here made between ‘cant’ and ‘slang.’ The first signifies the secret language of thieves, beggars, and tramps, by which they endeavour to conceal their evil deeds from the public. The knowledge and practice of this kind of language is confined to the above-named fraternities. But slang consists of those vulgar, unauthorised terms, which have come into fashion during the last eighty or ninety years, and which are not confined to one class, but may be now heard in almost every grade of society.

In all trades and professions there are certain terms peculiar to each, which are properly called ‘technical;’ these can hardly be denominated slang. For example, in the language of actors, a ‘length’ signifies forty-two lines of the part each has to study for the stage. They say, a part consists of so many ‘lengths.’ This, and other such terms, are seldom, if ever, heard beyond the circle to which they properly belong. But slang is found in almost all classes of society. That of high life is drawn from various sources. One of its phases may be seen in the French words and forms which would-be fashionable people so delight in using. To call a breakfast a dÉjeuner is absurd, especially as we have a very good word of our own to express that meal. Leaders of fashion never speak of the fashionable world; but always of the ‘beau monde.’ This ‘beau monde,’ they tell us, give ‘recherchÉs’ entertainments, attended by the ‘Élite’ of society. Lady So-and-So gave a ‘thÉ dansant,’ which, of course, ‘went off with Éclat,’ &c. &c. Many so-called fashionable ladies and gentlemen would, probably, be deeply offended to hear such language termed slang; but any words or forms which are not recognised English certainly deserve to be so stigmatised.

This form of slang is confined chiefly to the would-be fashionables, and to those writers of very questionable taste, who use what they think funny and startling expressions in a novel and flippant way. Cookery also has given us much slang of this sort. If we were to ask, in an ordinary English hotel, for ‘cÔtelettes À la jardiniÈre,’ or a ‘vol-au-vent À la financiÈre,’ the people of the house would probably stare at us; but these and such expressions form the staple of the style of many popular novelists.

Of parliamentary slang, too, there is no lack of examples. Lord Palmerston, and Mr. Disraeli are perhaps better known as Pam and Dizzy, than by their proper names. A single vote to one candidate at an election is called a ‘plumper;’ and those who have boiled a pot in a house, to qualify themselves to vote, are termed ‘potwallopers.’ Among military men, anyone unusually particular about his dress or personal appearance, is a ‘dandy’ or a ‘swell.’ They also call a ‘title’ a ‘handle to your name,’ and a kind-hearted, good-natured fellow is, with them, a ‘trump,’ or a ‘brick.’

The Universities also have their slang terms. The graduates use ‘crib’ for a house; ‘deadmen’ for empty wine-bottles; ‘governor,’ or ‘relieving-officer,’ for a father; ‘plucked,’ for defeated or rejected in an examination; and ‘row’ for a disturbance.

The Eton and Harrow boys make use among themselves of many slang terms, which are not often heard outside their bounds; but when they return home for the holidays, they frequently infect their sisters with some of their strange phraseology. A boy will sometimes puzzle his sisters at home, by asking them if they do not find his ‘toggery’ absolutely ‘stunning;’ or what they think of his ‘tile,’ or white ‘choker;’ adding that they are not yet paid for; but that he supposes the ‘governor’ will have to ‘stump up,’ or ‘fork out the blunt,’ &c.

Lawyers also have their slang; and this is not surprising, when we remember the many opportunities they must have of hearing it, from their connection with the police courts, and with life in its worst phases. With them, taking the benefit of the Insolvent Debtors Act, is to be ‘white-washed;’ and to draw up a fraudulent balance-sheet is to ‘cook’ accounts, &c.

But of all the forms of slang, the one most abundant in variety of terms is the mercantile. It has been calculated that there are as many as thirty-six vulgar synonyms for the one simple word money. The following are a few of them: ‘blunt,’ ‘tin,’ ‘coppers,’ ‘browns,’ ‘shiners,’ ‘yellow-boys,’ ‘flimsies’ (bank notes); ‘fivers’ (five pound notes), &c. &c. In city phraseology, 100,000l. is called a plum, and one million sterling is a marigold. On the Stock Exchange buyers and sellers for the account are called ‘bulls’ and ‘bears:’ a broker who is unable to pay his debts, is there called ‘a lame duck;’ and, if expelled from the house, he is said ‘to waddle.’

But though most of these terms will never form a legitimate part of the English language, some of them are certainly not considered so vulgar as others. It is said that the elegant Lord Chesterfield was the author of the word ‘humbug,’ which, though it may have been considered as slang in his day, can hardly be so called now. Another word, ‘hoax,’ was condemned by Swift as low and vulgar, this, too, has made its way; and is now not so revolting to good taste as it probably was when first used. Both these words, ‘humbug’ and ‘hoax,’ are to be found in Dr. Latham’s edition of Johnson’s Dictionary.

Thackeray immortalised ‘snob’ in his celebrated ‘papers;’ and though the word is not to be recommended, it must be allowed that it is very expressive. Lord Cairns, in a speech in the House of Commons, called ‘dodge’ ‘that homely but expressive term.’ Nor is ‘crusty,’ in the sense of ‘peevish,’ so low as it was once thought. It has long been a question, whether the word ‘bamboozle’ should be admitted. This also is to be found in Latham’s Johnson, though it is there entered as ‘colloquial.’

But though it may be allowed to use some of these terms occasionally in familiar discourse, no one of any sense or good taste will ever think of indulging in slang language, either spoken or written. It is, no doubt, a bad sign of the times, and much to be deplored, that it is so common. Some writers have calculated that there are, at least, three thousand slang terms in common use. The above are but a few examples of this widespread corruption. We may regard it, as concerns our language, in the light of a pest to society. It takes a long time to clear the atmosphere from the baneful influences of certain epidemics. Now, the language of every-day conversation is suffering from this infectious disease, and it becomes the duty of every Englishman who has a proper feeling for his language, to refrain from this evil himself, and to throw in its way every possible discouragement.

Americanisms.

The recklessness with which the Americans use the English language bids fair to flood it with many new and strange terms. It is very possible that some of these words may some day take their places as forming part of the legitimate materials of our language; and it is also possible, as the Americans themselves sometimes declare, that some of the words and phrases which are now called American, are, in reality, genuine English words which have become obsolete in the mother tongue. But, in the mean time, they certainly must be regarded as interlopers—candidates for an office to which they are not yet, if they ever will be, entitled.

One rather curious explanation has been given of the word ‘guess.’ It is well known that the Americans use it in the sense of to know for certain. ‘I guess’ is equivalent, in American phraseology, to ‘I know it’—‘I am sure of it.’ Now, it has been argued that this is the proper meaning of the word—that it is derived from the German ‘gewiss,’ which comes originally from ‘wissen,’ to know. When first imported into America, in the seventeenth century, they say that it had this meaning in English—that we in England have since then altered the meaning of the word, and that the Americans have preserved its original signification. Even supposing that this could be proved, it does not follow that the American practice is the right one; nor, of course, that we should alter our present meaning of the word, and conform to the American custom. The fountain-head of the English language is in England, and in no other country; and all departures from the English use of English words must be looked upon as faults against purity of style.

Americanisms may be considered under two heads—1st, legitimate English words used in a wrong sense; and, 2nd, words of a new invention, mutilated or distorted from some known or unknown root. In the first class we may place the adjective ‘tall.’ This the Americans use in a novel and unrecognised sense. In English it is properly applied only to concrete nouns; as, ‘a tall man,’ or ‘a tall tree,’ &c. But, in the United States, we continually hear of ‘tall talk,’ or even ‘a tall smell,’ &c. It is not the word that is here objected to, but the sense in which it is applied. To ‘raise’ is another of this class, which is constantly used for ‘to educate,’ or ‘bring up.’ ‘Where were you raised?’ is, in America, a very common question. Again, the word ‘liquor’ is a perfectly good English noun; but what a strange innovation is ‘to liquor!’ A genuine Yankee says, ‘Stranger, will you “liquor?”’ ‘Handsome,’ ‘clever,’ and ‘fix’ are all three genuine English, but ‘to play handsome on the flute’ is undoubtedly bad English. We sometimes qualify persons, but never things, as ‘clever.’ A ‘clever’ boy, or a ‘clever’ man, &c., but never, as in America, a ‘clever’ house or a ‘clever’ cargo. Again, in America a very common use of ‘to fix’ is ‘to prepare,’ or ‘put in order.’ This is not sanctioned by English usage. But ‘a fix,’ in the sense of a dilemma or predicament, is condemned by literary men in the United States as a vulgarism.

The other class consists of words wholly unrecognised in English in any sense—in fine, genuine Americanisms; such words as ‘secesh,’ ‘skedaddle,’ ‘recuperate,’ ‘rowdy,’ ‘rile,’ ‘stampede,’ &c., which can in no sense be said to belong to our language. Nor is it likely that English writers of any pretensions to good taste will ever adopt them. The Americans call the English ‘Britishers;’ to tease or vex anyone is, with them, ‘to rile’ him; to make a set speech is to ‘orate;’ a sudden panic and flight of soldiers is a ‘stampede,’ &c. There are other words of this class which it would puzzle most English writers to explain; such as ‘slick,’ ‘spry,’ ‘kedge,’ ‘boss,’ ‘absquatulate,’ &c. These are not English words, and we may pretty confidently predict that they will never become English.

There can be little doubt, however, that certain expressions now known as Americanisms were, at one time, very commonly used in English. Madame D’Arblay, as well as other writers of her time, has, over and over again, ‘mighty fine,’ ‘mighty pretty,’ &c. ‘Mighty pretty’ is exactly on a par with ‘uncommon nice.’ The one is just as incorrect as the other. This is a form of expression continually used by American writers. Forty or fifty years ago the adjective ‘rare’ was commonly used for ‘underdone’ (meat). Now, though common enough in the United States, it is seldom, if ever, applied by us in that sense. Some of these peculiarities appear to be making way in English, in spite of our struggles against them. Such are ‘to progress’ for ‘to advance,’ ‘to effectuate’ for ‘to accomplish,’ ‘right off,’ or ‘right away,’ for ‘at once’ or ‘immediately,’ ‘laid over’ for ‘put off,’ &c.

The Americans use ‘tiresome’ for ‘tiring;’ they speak of a ‘tiresome’—for a fatiguing—journey. Also a ‘good’ time is used for a ‘pleasant’ time, ‘fall’ for ‘autumn,’ and to ‘go-a-head’ for ‘to prosper.’ One American word which seems likely to establish itself in the English language is, ‘a loafer.’ This would seem to be derived from the German ‘laufen,’ to run, though it has not that meaning in the United States, where it signifies one who lounges about lazily.

In America many new terms are the offspring of a political excitement, which is sure to occur every four years, i.e. as often as a new President is elected. On these occasions such words as ‘Copperheads,’ ‘Ring-tailed Roarers,’ ‘Know-nothings,’ ‘Fenians,’ ‘Wolverines,’ &c., &c., are sure to make their appearance. These words may have a meaning for those who invent and use them, but to the great majority of Englishmen they are altogether a mystery.

Language, in the hands of a great poet, has been often called ‘a flame of fire.’ However this may be, in the hands of certain American journalists it does seem, now and then, very likely to burn their own fingers. In the New York papers we meet with the verb ‘to concertize,’ which may possibly mean to give a succession of concerts. We remember hearing that process once called ‘going about matinÉeing!’ And there is quite as good authority for the one as for the other of these expressions. Another unintelligible phrase, drawn from the same source, is ‘an emergent meeting.’ This word is never used, in modern English, in a concrete sense. We may say an emergent occasion or emergent doubts, but not an emergent candidate or an emergent character. It is possible that the writer meant a meeting called together on an emergency.

The rapid communication established of late years between England and the United States has brought the two nations into a much closer connection with each other. This, in a commercial or a political view, may be of great advantage to both countries. But every advantage has its drawback, and it is very doubtful whether this condition of things is likely to benefit the English language. The Americans are well known to set great store by liberty, and of course we have no right whatever to interfere with their opinions concerning principles or forms of political government. But it becomes a serious matter for us when they think proper to take liberties with our language. They set up for themselves, probably by way of showing their independence, new modes of spelling; and they are perpetually introducing all sorts of meanings, words, and phrases, none of which have the remotest title to be called English. In the writings of the late N. P. Willis, we meet with such terms as the following:—‘An unletupable nature,’ ‘wideawakeity,’ ‘plumptitude,’ ‘pocketually speaking,’ ‘betweenity,’ and ‘go-awayness!’ In the same gentleman’s writings, we occasionally come across such elegant forms of expression as ‘whipping creation,’ ‘flogging Europe,’ ‘a heap of opinions,’ ‘tarnation quick,’ &c. These and all such must be looked upon as abortions or deformities of our language; and no English writer who has any respect for his own reputation should ever think of countenancing, far less of adopting, such monstrosities.